


that which cannot kill us

by ferbiedragon



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:54:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22961989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferbiedragon/pseuds/ferbiedragon
Summary: there are times when hawke loses herself to the horrors of her past.varric isn't very good at this, but he is trying, and that counts.
Relationships: Female Hawke/Varric Tethras
Kudos: 19





	1. do not go so far

The first time Varric sees her _incapacitated_ , Hawke is fairly certain she might die from the shame of it. Not until later, of course, when her mind is settled and she has time to reflect on the overarching humiliation of the situation, but even with time between herself and the event in question, she still feels mortified enough to seriously consider finding a sizable hole to crawl into.

Generally speaking, Marian Hawke likes to think she has a fairly good grasp on herself. Though her Episodes did happen often, when she was younger, they have grown fewer and farther between as she has aged, and she has since grown used to them, and knows the telltale signs before they occur, so that, more often than not, she is easily able to hide herself away when they _do_ occur.

It’s happened twice, since they came to Kirkwall, once shortly after their arrival, when Gamlen (sick with some sort of chest cold) had spent the night wheezing and coughing, and then again, briefly after they took back their estate in Hightown, when an attempt to stoke a fire had resulted in a billow of smoke and ash, and both of those times Garrett or Carver or her mother had been about to handle her.

Handle her, rather. Capital H. There is a distinction.

As it stands, however, Hawke does not usually thing much of her mind’s capacity to leave her stranded in the past, not when it has not happened in so long, and so perhaps she has grown complacent. Either that, or she is too stubborn to recognize when she is in danger of it happening.

Most likely, it’s the latter. It’s only that Wicked Grace is too _fun_ to leave early, though.

“Sorry about that, Hawke.” Varric tells her, as they walk back towards Hightown, leaving the Hanged Man behind them. “Don’t ask me what a group of off-duty templar were doing, hanging around tonight. Usually they prefer, uh... better places, to drink. Not the local dive.”

Hawke, who is only halfway listening- _her mind is full of the clinking of heavy armor, and the smell of burning flesh, and laughter_ \- tilts her head in his direction. “Maybe they were trying to be daring.” she says, with as much levity as she can muster. “Most of them come from Hightown, you know. I doubt they’ve ever set foot in a place with as much _specialized class._ ”

“Hah! Not the words I’d use, but what do I know?” Varric flexes his fingers; she hears the creak of his leather gloves. There is a long silence between them, broken only by the sound of their feet and the faint, ever-present Lowtown breeze. Then Hawke sighs, loudly.

“You know,” she begins, a little exasperated, “You didn’t _actually_ need to walk me home. I am entirely capable of making the trek on my own, with or without Rosie.” Generally she prefers to keep her hound close at hand, but her mother had been adamant about making a visit to the de Launcet home that evening, and Hawke is intimately aware that even Hightown streets can be deadly.

And, while Leandra Hawke is intimidating in her own right (no one poisons tea cakes like her mother does) she is also not adept at physical defense, and Hawke prefers to have at least one set of strong teeth between her mother and the various gangs which prowl the streets of Kirkwall.

“Now, Hawke, I’m offended you think I doubt your abilities.” Varric says. She imagines him putting a hand to his chest to illustrate his offense. “Anyone coming after you in the night is just asking to be killed. But,” he adds, “it’s also possible you might be _wounded_ in the process, and that just seems inconvenient.”

“Oh, so if you’re here, I _won’t_ be wounded.” Hawke lifts a brow. “Is that the theory?”

“A working one,” Varric hedges. “Shit, Hawke, I just thought it might help to have someone else along with you. No offense, but you’ve been acting... off, all night.”

Hawke bristles a little, then. “I have not.” she argues, although she suspects it doesn’t matter. Varric is nothing if not observant. She knows she’s been a little... cagey, all night, but it’s been difficult to think with a group of templar clanging around behind them, muttering about apostates, belligerent mages- stupid little bitch, throw fire at me- and she had thought she’d kept a lid on it, but, well.

Well. Varric is nothing if not observant.

“Come on, Hawke. I’m nothing if not observant.” she hears the rustle of his duster as he shrugs his shoulders. “Look, templar kinda make me nervous, too. I get it. Shit, Blondie even left early.”

“Mm. And took Garrett with him.” and Marian is decidedly _not_ jealous of that, of how quickly her twin had been to leave her behind for the sake of his new romance. It would be horribly selfish of her to feel that way, and Hawke is not _selfish_ , not like that. “I do hope they went to Anders’ clinic and not our house. I would hate to be kept awake all night.”

“I couldn’t say where they went. For your sake, though, I hope it _was_ Blondie’s clinic.” he sighs, softly. “I needed to get out of the Hanged Man for awhile, anyway. Starting to develop a bit of writer’s block, if we’re being honest.”

“Well, we do try to be.” Hawke sighs. “Writer’s block, eh? That sounds serious.”

“You’re telling me. I’ve been so stagnant, I think I’m starting to grow mushrooms.”

“I don’t smell any, but I wouldn’t know for certain.” Hawke smiles a little. “You’re have to check. They do like dark, moist places.”

“Ah, what a terrible word. ‘Moist’.” Varric shudders, then cackles. "Anyway, Hawke, it isn't so bad having me around, is it? I can... describe the scenery to you as we go."

"Oh yes, very nice. 'The ground is grey and dirty, the walls are grey and dirty, the sky is, you guessed it- grey and dirty'." It is entirely possible that Hawke may be somewhat short tempered, at the moment, but there is a faint headache knocking persistently behind her temples, and her heart seems to be attempting to beat it's way out of her chest. The combination is making it difficult to focus.

"Hey, now. I'm better at describing things than that." Varric sounds a little offended, real offense, this time, which makes Hawke regret being so sour. Varric _is_ her favoritest dwarf, after all.

"It's true, you are." she amends, hoping she sounds conciliatory without being too condescending. "I'm sorry, Varric. I _am_ a little out of sorts. Go on, then; describe it all for me. Paint a picture in my mind." she reaches down to touch his shoulder, squeeze lightly, encouraging.

He laughs, under his breath, in that dusky way he has. "My pleasure, Hawke." he says, then clears his throat and begins to narrate.

"We're walking through the Lowtown market, right now, but the merchants have all shut their stalls down for the night. The place is deserted, mostly, but someone has gone through to light the night lamps, which takes away some of the eeriness, in my opinion. You were right, about the ground and walls- they are dirty, and grey, but in the lamplight they're cast in orange, flickering every now and then, which makes for some pretty impressive shadows."

"Hm, nice background. Makes for a good story."

"Yeah. Hey, you mentioned the sky earlier, right? It does look a little grey from down here, with all the smoke from the Foundry. Always does, in Lowtown, but it's pretty, tonight. There are flecks of ash, still a burning a little. Kind of like the sun on broken glass."

"You make it sound so beautiful in Lowtown."

"Ah, Hawke, it _is_ beautiful in Lowtown. Sure, it's not gilded and polished, and maybe you're more likely to get bit by a rabid rat, but it's got it's perks. Why do you think I live here, and not in some grand estate up in Hightown?"

"Because you're a sucker for punishment." Hawke responds, even though her heart does an odd little twist when she thinks of her own home. She's glad they have the estate back, for her mother's sake if nothing else, but something about it feels... foreign. Lacking. A far cry better than Gamlen's hovel, certainly, but nowhere near as comfortable as the farm back in Lothering, their own little sanctuary- burning up as the Darkspawn descend, the faint screech-holler of the approaching Horde, Bethany's hand in her own-

"-awke. Hawke? Hey." a hand touches the sleeve of her robe, and Marian jerks, both mentally and physically, back to the present.

"Oh." she takes in a slow breath. "Sorry. What were you saying?"

"I didn't say anything." Varric murmurs. They've stopped walking, and she can just _tell_ that he's looking at her, probably scrutinizing her face, and she flinches away from his searching gaze. She despises the thought that he may see weakness.

She is _Hawke_ , one of them, anyway, and those who know her look to her for her strength. Varric, above all- how else will he tell his stories, after all? And however much he says they are meant to help _her_ , Hawke knows- she _knows_ \- that part of Varric believes them, too. Just a little, not the parts he embellishes, of course, because Varric isn't a fool by any means, but he- well, he sees her as _someone grand_ , someone who can help others, who stands between everyone and danger, and she- 

She bears the weight. That is what she _does_.

"Hawke," Varric has a question in his tone, even before he actually asks it, and she feels her throat tighten up when his hand touches her elbow, like he's trying to support her, like he thinks she may collapse at any moment- and that is simply _wrong_. "You okay? You're looking kind of pale." he's asking, of course, to give her a chance to deny it, because he must know something is wrong, must _realize_ , but Varric does not _do_ heavy emotions, not really, he's more the sort to laugh things off, like she is, like they both _have to be_. It's simply the way things are.

"I'm fine." she answers, her voice tight and a little choked. She swallows, and sucks in a breath to try again. "Varric-"

And then, of course, they're attacked by street thugs.


	2. come back to me

They call themselves the Dog Lords, and they have been a thorn in _everyone's_ side for weeks, now. More than once Hawke and her companions have spent the night wading through their attacks, a thing which pleases none of them, least of all she and Garrett. First of all, because they employ mabari, and neither of them much _enjoy_ fighting and killing dogs, but, for another, because they are giving Fereldan's a bad name.

Well. A worse one.

The only indication that Varric and Hawke have before the attack commences is the unmistakable baying of a mabari hound, and then Varric curses, "Shit," and Hawke hears the all-too-familiar sound of him drawing Bianca, of her gears turning as he loads her, and she realizes that she will have to fight- _ah yes, fucking of course they would pick now, of all times_ \- and she whips her staff from her back, fingers burning as she calls fire to them.

It is not a large group, which is a small mercy, but Hawke counts the sound three sets of footsteps, and then, of course, the all-too-familiar sound of paws thundering against the ground, only one, she thinks, but hates fighting dogs, it always reminds her of Rosie, who she wishes _desperately_ were here right now.

Getting into fights without the hound to guard her flank always makes her a little nervous. Not that this entire _situation_ doesn't make her nervous. After all, she and Varric fight better at a distance, and, from the sound of it, the approaching bandits are carrying swords-

Then Varric shouts, and fires off a volley of arrows, and Marian forgets everything but the battle before them.

Truthfully, she registers very _little_ of the events as they occur. Her body moves of it's own accord, muscle memory from a thousand hard-won fights, the most basic instinct to _stay alive_. She gets her back to a wall and flings fire and lightning with no thought, and cannot even think to hope that Varric does not get in the way.

The sounds of fighting fade in her ears, the familiar Lowtown scent of dust and smoke and people fading, and suddenly all she hears is the clink of armor, and the sound of a sword sliding free of it's sheath, and the searing pain of her hair being pulled-

_-and the templar sneers at her, lips pulled back over yellowed teeth as he hauls her upright by her hair and the back of her dress, so that her feet leave the ground, and she is twelve again, all flailing, too-long limbs and fear._

_"Apostate!" he snarls out, his voice rough and furious, and she tries but she cannot escape his grasp as his power snuffs out her magic, suffocates her, as he shakes her back and forth. "Hiding right under my nose! We'll see what the Chantry has to say about this-"_

A hound bays somewhere nearby and she wonders, because there are no hounds here, and someone is beside her, says something but their voice is distant and muffled like she is underwater-

_"Let her go!" Garrett screams, hurtling towards the templar, fists swinging, though he stands no chance against the older man in his heavy armor. The templar twists and bats her brother aside with the pommel of his sword, and Garrett falls back, holding the side of his head. Tries to stand again, too stubborn for his own good, thunders forward once more._

_"Little brat." snarls the templar. He drops Marian and holds her on the ground with his foot, grabs Garrett by the front of his shirt and hauls him up, and her twin sinks his teeth into the templar's gloved hand, deep into the meaty part of his thumb, where there is only leather and no plate, and the man shouts in pain and drops him. "Insolence! I will end you, boy-" and his blade glints and Marian does not know, cannot know if he means it-_

_She twists, throws her hand upwards and calls fire like Papa has shown her, and the templar screams as half his face goes up in flames, and the air stinks like when the men from the village scald the hair off a pig when it's slaughtered-_

"Hawke, Hawke!" a voice she does not recognize, in her ears, too loud, and she is on the ground and she cannot breathe and someone grabs her hand, "Hawke, answer me!"

_The templar snarls in agony and anger, but his foot does not leave her and so she calls fire again, but this time his shield comes up, and the fire comes_ down _and the world is dark and red and she screams, screams, keeps screaming, cannot stop-_

"Shit," says the voice, and someone's hands are on her face, holding, touching her hair, and the air reeks of burnt flesh, "Hawke, come on, it's me, Varric," and she knows that name, she _knows_ it, but she-

_-she feels the weight of the templar as he is dragged off of her, and the air goes tinny and sharp and lightning strikes, the sound so loud and so bright, and she hears Papa,_ "Get away from my children!" _but she cannot see him, not when he gathers her up, when they flee, Garrett is crying and she is crying and it hurts hurts hurts so badly-_

"Shit," says the voice, and Papa never curses that way when he is around them, and it is not Garrett who speaks, and the voice says, "Hawke. _Marian_. It's me, it's Varric. Varric Tethras, you know, swarthy, handsome, the envy of every man to walk the earth? Come on, Giggles, work with me-" and she, she knows him, she _knows_ him, but he was not, he was never-

"Varric?" she chokes. Confused, so confused, her eyes hurt, "Varric, I can't see, where- how- you were never there, you were never _there_ , how are you here-"

"It's okay." he soothes. His voice is warm and dusky and a little rough at the edges, like woodsmoke, like fine whiskey, and his leather gloves against her face, and the smell of him, like paper and ink and the lingering scent of sawdust- from the Hanged Man, where he lives, _Varric lives in the Hanged Man, in Kirkwall,_ not Fereldan, he would hate Fereldan. Nothing but mud and rain, Maker, but-

But Varric knows things, he _always_ knows things, he can explain.

"I can't see." she croaks out. "Varric. Where is- Garrett was, the templar, my _eyes_ , Papa came but-"

"Shit." he says again, like it's his favorite word, and most people think it is but Varric writes and he has so _many_ favorite words. "Marian, listen. I'm here because _we're_ here. I don't know where you think you are, but it's Kirkwall, alright? Lowtown, remember? We were in the Hanged Man. We played Wicked Grace and you lost-"

"Because you _cheated_ ," she accuses, without knowing why, a sob that forces out of her throat like it wants to be a laugh, but there is nothing to laugh about.

"I always cheat, Giggles. So does Rivaini." he chuckles, under his breath, strokes her short hair.

Rivaini. Isabela, who is not here now, but she was also not _there_ , before, the templar and her father and the stink of burning flesh- "I can't see," she breathes. "It's so dark. Varric, where is Garrett?"

"Knowing him, he's probably at your estate with Blondie. They're probably feeding each other grapes and cheese and generally making anyone who sees them through a window feel nauseous." his thumbs wipe the tears trailing down her cheeks. "Breathe, Giggles, you've got to breathe or you'll pass out, and I don't think you want anyone to see me carrying you through Lowtown."

She takes in a deep, shuddering breath, and then another, fighting down the urge to gag. The air smells awful.

"Yeah. That's good." Varric says, and doesn't comment on the fact that she sounds a bit like a fish that's been thrust out of the ocean which, later, she will appreciate. "Keep doing that. I know it doesn't smell _great_ right now. You, uh... burned a few bodies, there."

"Varric." she says his name, and lifts her hands until she touches his chest, until she can grip the fine silk of his shirt in her fingers. "Varric," she says again, and reminds herself that _he_ was not there, before, and so _she_ is not there, before.

"I'm here," he tells her, and he _is_.

Her eyes close, and her head falls forward until it touches his shoulder and rests there. She cannot see because she is blind, and her father is not here because he is dead, she _remembers_.

"Once," she says, her voice muffled by his leather duster, "once, in Fereldan, I was practicing magic near the river and a templar caught me,"

"Hawke," Varric starts, "you don't need to-"

"Shut up," she wheezes, which is asking a _lot_ of Varric, and it's a testament to how freaked out he must be that he complies without a snarky comment. "He caught me and he would have- taken me in, or killed me, I don't know, but Garrett saw and tried to fight him. And then, he would have killed Garrett, so I burned him, and I tried to do it again, and he put up his shield, and now I'm blind."

He says nothing, but one of his hands goes down to squeeze her shoulder.

"My father killed him and we ran away. We had to leave. We went to Lothering. If there had been healing- if we hadn't had to run- maybe my eyes..." she swallows hard. "Tonight. The templar in the Hanged Man, and the- the fighting-" she clenches her teeth.

"Assholes," Varric growls out. She laughs. She can't help it.

"Yes," she agrees. Then she inhales again, her chest tight. "Sometimes- sometimes I can't remember where I am. When. Sometimes I'm stuck- back then. Or with Bethany. Or my father, when they died, or- or the Deep Roads. Carver. I..." she searches for the words, cannot think of how to explain. Maker, what he must _think_ of her. "Fuck. Damn and blast. I'm _sorry_ , Varric."

A heartbeat passes. Then he says, "Hawke, _why_ are you _sorry_?" like he can't possibly understand what she's talking, as if, of all the things she's just told him, that she is _apologizing_ is somehow inconceivable.

"I'm ruining your story," she explains, and then chokes out a laugh. "I _keep_ ruining it. Maker, Varric, I'm not very good at this 'hero' business you keep touting. Maybe I should let Garrett take over Hawke duties and... oh, I don't know. Retire. Somewhere."

"Hawke, come on." Varric says. His other hand leaves her face to take her other shoulder, and it could almost be a hug, although he doesn't seem to know if it's a good idea or not. "We both know you'd go stir-crazy if you retired. Shit, you'd burn down half the countryside trying to entertain yourself." and honestly, she can't even argue with that.

"I'm just... sorry." she sighs. "It's like when Merrill found out Isabela didn't have a peg leg, or an eyepatch. I feel like I must be disappointing you terribly."

"Giggles..." he sighs, softly, and then he really _does_ hug her, tugging her closer to his chest. The pressure is comforting. "Listen, don't tell anyone I said this- but forget about the story, just for a second."

" _Varric._ " Hawke says, admonishing.

"I mean it. Look, maybe it's my fault you've got this idea that I see you as some kind of untouchable hero, but as someone's who's seen you with the ass ripped out of your pants _more than once_ -"

"That second time wasn't my fault," she insists.

"-noted, but regardless... I get it. Maybe not entirely, I'm not a mage, and I've never... dealt with the exact sort of shit you have, but... I get it. You're human. You're _mortal _. We all are, even me, Paragon of Manliness though I am. And you end up carrying a lot of weight on your back. I'm... pretty sure this city would fall down without you holding it up."__

__

__

__"Ah. What a comfort that is."_ _

__

__

__"Yeah, that actually didn't come out the way I meant it." he sighs, and lifts a hand, and she can picture him sliding it back through his hair. He keeps it tied up, it had been the time she'd seen him in the Fade, with Feynriel, and she suddenly wonders what it would look like undone._ _

__

__

__Maybe the Fade will be decent to her when she sleeps, and give her an idea._ _

__

__"What I do mean," he continues, "Is that it's kind of understandable if you... need a break, now and then. Even if you probably won't get one for very long." he laughs, softly. "You do kind of attract trouble. It's a... talent, I'll say that much."_ _

__

__"A nuisance." Hawke groans. "A curse, more like."_ _

__

__"Maybe. But you do good work, Hawke. Without you, I... probably would've died, in the Deep Roads. And the Qunari would be tearing this city apart brick by brick."_ _

__

__"I'm not convinced that _won't_ happen, yet."_ _

__

__"Neither am I, but it hasn't _yet_ , so I'll add it to your wins." he rubs her back in soothing circles. "...You know, I'm actually kind of glad to know you aren't unbreakable. I was... starting to get a little intimidated." _ _

__

__"Only just now?" she shifts a little, pulling back from him. Her breathing has evened, the pounding behind her eyes lessening to a light tapping, and she lifts up a hand to wipe her eyes on her sleeve, wincing when the fabric pulls at the sensitive skin there. She might have to ask Anders to make another of his ointments for them. "Well. I'll make an effort to be _even more_ intimidating, from now on, if only to keep you on your toes. I would hate for you to get too comfortable." _ _

__

__"Oh, trust me, Hawke, I never manage that when I'm running around after you." his hands haven't left her, just yet, although he's loosened his hold enough for her to move about. There is a long moment of quiet, and then he reaches, cupping her cheek once more, so that her breath catches a little- unrelated to her recent breakdown, of course. "...look, Hawke-"_ _

__

__"You called me 'Marian' before." she murmurs._ _

__

__"Yeah. Alright. Look, Marian," his thumb strokes back and forth, minutely, across her skin. "You don't have to hide from me. This... shit you go through, whether it's in your head or not, I'm here. And, contrary to popular belief, I _can_ keep a secret or two." he pauses. "...you know, provided it doesn't have to do with torn pants. I've probably told that story once or twice."_ _

__

__"Oh, Varric." she breathes out a laugh, tilts her head into his touch. "I hope you told everyone how magnificent my arse is."_ _

__

__"I believe what I said was, 'like a ripe peach, but not as furry'. Or something like that."_ _

__

__She giggles, and then laughs, and when he helps her up she stands, and the two of them leave the Lowtown alleys behind._ _

__

__(Later, Aveline will complain about the dead bodies, and Hawke will laugh and apologize, but she isn't really sorry.)_ _


End file.
